


Your Lips and Mine (sharp as knives, sweet as summer berries)

by IamShadow21



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bad Ideas, Banter, Bruce Banner Smokes Marijuana, Bruce Banner's Sad Backstory, Christmas, Christmas Dinner, Community: trope_bingo, Drug Use, Friends With Benefits, Friendship, Fusion - MCU and Hawkeye (Fraction), Gen, Hawkguy, Holidays, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Magic, Mistletoe, Not Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Not Iron Man 3 Compliant, Not Thor: The Dark World Compliant, One Night Stands, Orgasm Delay, Platonic Kissing, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Road Trips, Sharing a Bed, Stoned Sex, Stuck Together Because Magic, Team Bonding, Tony Has Issues, Tony No, Trolling, Trope Bingo Round 1, Trope Bingo Round 2, Trope Subversion/Inversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 17:37:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1046649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamShadow21/pseuds/IamShadow21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Tony Stark kisses and is kissed, makes poor choices and good apologies, and ends up with a family of friends despite himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Lips and Mine (sharp as knives, sweet as summer berries)

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Avengers, fused with elements of Fraction's Hawkeye, most heavily 006 (Six Nights in the Life of Hawkeye). Not IM3, Thor 2 or Winter Soldier compliant, because reasons. Mainly because it was easier not to.
> 
> This story started out because I looked at my Trope Bingo Rounds One and Two cards and saw a large amount of kissing oriented squares, so I thought I'd write them all if I could. I managed to hit a bunch of others along the way, but whether I've subverted them enough is a matter of opinion, I suspect.
> 
> For the full list of squares this story covers, please look at the endnotes or the tags, since I didn't want to spoil everything here at the beginning.

**The Joke**

It starts as a joke, a kind of 'yay, we didn't die, we're all full of adrenalin, and whoops, there's the media' joke.

Yeah, Tony's not known for his fantastic choices.

But in his defence; Steve was just _there_ , with his perfect part all mussed, a smudge of dirt right across his forehead, and a streak of crimson from a cut lip (already healed) smeared along his jawline.

Tony's a big fan of messing things up; it's nearly as fun as building things, so it's second nature to grab Steve's face and swoop in like he's going to kiss him.

What he doesn't count on is Steve freezing up completely in shock rather than shoving him away, and Tony's lips land perfectly on Steve's half-open mouth. Tony's so startled himself, he doesn't pull back for half a second.

The street lights up like a flash grenade as the photographers penned behind the police barrier at the end of the block all snap pictures simultaneously.

Tony pulls back thinking Pepper's going to have kittens.

He opens his mouth and what comes out is, “Mmm, what do you know. He really does taste of apple pie and freedom.”

Steve opens and shuts his mouth once or twice, then a frown like a thundercloud settles across his brow and he storms off to go shift rubble, or save puppies, or something.

Tony laughs, and licks his lips. A neutral wetness, with a slight tang of iron, nothing more.

He shuts the faceplate of the suit, and immediately, there's a discreet pop-up on the HUD courtesy of JARVIS.

The photograph that's already splashed across an increasing number of media outlets and blogs looks far more romantic than it felt. They'd both shut their eyes, and at some point, Steve's hand had dropped to hover above the small of Tony's back.

 _I can explain_ , Tony sends to Pepper's phone, then braces for impact.

*

**The Road Trip**

Tony's still in disgrace for the kissing stunt when Clint passes his final evaluation and gets off suspension. Clint hasn't been on lockdown, or under disciplinary sequestering, but he has had a curfew and been required to complete the compulsory six-weeks deprogramming. Even Tony can read the deep lines around Clint's eyes and mouth and see how exhausted and miserable the fallout from Loki's possession has left him.

“I could use a drink,” Clint says with a weak smile, when he steps out of SHIELD HQ to see Tony waiting with Happy and the limo.

“Fuck that. We're going to Vegas,” Tony says, with a dismissive flap of his hand. Somehow through sheer force of personality, he rounds up the rest of the Scooby Gang (sans Thor, who's still in Asgard) and they're on his private jet within the hour.

It's a startlingly surreal experience, seeing the deadly dangerous Avengers kicking back. Tony's utterly charmed by the lot of them. 

Bruce is sitting on the sidelines, being predictably quiet, but he's sipping at a glass of red wine and looking the happiest Tony's seen him outside of a lab.

Steve, who he'd expected to be completely disapproving and as much fun as a wet sack, asks for a scotch without hesitation. Tony knows Steve can't get drunk, but he can't help but smile as Steve's eyebrows shoot up at the first taste.

“How pricey is this?” he asks, with a tiny frown.

“You don't want to know,” Tony says, pouring one for himself with an expert hand. “You have to drink it; you can't give it back, it's not polite.”

“I'm not giving it back,” Steve says, holding the glass a little closer, possessively.

“Damn right, you're not,” Tony says firmly, and he could swear that Steve's mouth ticks up at the corners a little in amusement.

Natasha helps herself to a bottle of vodka straight off. Tony decides that it is worth risking evisceration to mock her about being a cliché, and considers himself lucky to escape with a death glare. From what he can tell, most of the vodka is ending up in Clint, not Natasha, which has gone some way to easing the tension and sadness in Clint's demeanour.

It's enough that Clint has started telling tall tales about the circus, while Natasha has chipped in the odd bit about acrobatics and ballet. It's as good a time as any for Tony to lower the stripper poles, and within a minute they're doing the assassin twins version of a dance-off, which seems to involve a lot of dangling upside-down using only their thighs.

Natasha is _giggling_ ; there's something incredibly wrong about that.

And then Steve polishes off the scotch he'd been nursing, and performs some kind of contortion, a handstand that allows him to grab the pole with his feet. A flex, and he's right-way up, legs locked at the ankles and one hand holding the pole lightly for balance while his hair brushes the ceiling.

Clint glances over and catches sight of Steve and just sort of _lets go_ ; collapses awkwardly to the floor in a rolling tumble of exclamations of pain and breathless laughter. His head winds up half in Tony's lap, and for the first time since he's known him, he looks _alive_ , rather than grief-stricken and going through the motions.

“I'm okay,” he wheezes. “I'm all right.”

“Dumbass,” Natasha says, the affection in her voice unguarded.

The walls have come down, and they haven't even reached Vegas.

“I'm okay,” Clint says softly, and it's almost a question.

Tony smooths his hand through the soft bristle of Clint's hair. “You're fine,” he says.

Clint gives a snuffly little laugh. “You'd better believe it,” he says, then pouts coquettishly. 

“I mean, you're nowhere near as handsome as me, but you're giving Fury a run for his money.”

Clint reaches up and gives Tony a little shove. “Shut your mouth, I am a _fine_ piece of ass.”

Tony pushes Clint in retaliation, and Clint slides off. “You're an ass, sure.”

“Are we having a hypocritical statements competition? You should spend less time in the workshop,” Bruce chips in.

“Shut your mouth,” Tony says in mock-horror.

“No, seriously, I'm getting sick of being Pepper's enforcer. I've got my own lab, my own work to do, my own insomnia to nurse.”

“You are a traitor; I can't even look at you.”

“You've got a lab?” Clint cranes his neck to look at Bruce.

“He's got all the toys. So do you,” Tony says, and watches Clint blink a few times slowly while that information sinks in. “There's a gym, an agility course, a range. Everything a ninja spy assassin working for a shadowy government agency needs. An apartment, too.”

“I've already got an apartment,” Clint murmurs, not unkindly. He looks a little dazed.

“Well, now you've got another. Use it, don't use it, I don't care. Just come and play. Now that you've been certified, or uncertified, or whatever.”

“Oh, he's definitely certifiable,” Natasha says. She's climbed higher on her pole, and is preparing to launch herself over to Steve, who's still clinging to the top of his pole like a monkey, with one arm outstretched in Natasha's direction, ready to catch her. He seems just as relaxed up there as he was sprawled on the sofa drinking scotch.

“You'll fit right in. People have been calling me crazy for years,” Tony says, with his most prize-winning smile, the one Rhodey says should come with a lens flare and a ting.

The three days they spend in Vegas are a roaring success for camaraderie, and a nightmare for whoever has to do the PR. Tony's just grateful for sunglasses, breakfast Bloody Marys and room service everything. The casinos are happy because Tony spends big and the Avengers draw plenty of gawpers. The paparazzi are happy because Steve insists on them walking the length of the Strip (taking photos, like a damn tourist) and because Clint finds a karaoke bar at some point on night two and monopolises the mike shamelessly. And Pepper is happy from afar, because Steve keeps gently steering them away from any genuinely bad behaviour.

Tony's just glad to be able to call success on the completely spontaneous team bonding thing that happened. By the time they leave Vegas for New York, there are far fewer awkward pauses in conversation than there were. Bruce and Clint are out of their shells. Steve and Natasha actually smiled and laughed without being under duress. And Tony, well, he's sort of surprised at how much he didn't resent the time away from the lab and the next new prototype suit. That's until he sees it from the outside.

There's a picture that turns up online that someone at the karaoke bar took between songs. Clint is squeezing Tony tight and pressing a wet, enthusiastic kiss to Tony's cheek.

“You're awesome. I mean it. Thank you,” Clint had slurred in his ear a moment beforehand. 

In the photo, Tony can tell by looking at himself that he's mildly uncomfortable, trapped and squirming, but his mouth is upturned and wide with laughter, the creases around his eyes deep with amusement. 

“Huh,” Tony murmurs to himself. “Interesting.”

He doesn't remember the last time he saw a picture of himself where the smile was completely natural, or if it was natural, didn't have an edge to it of something darker. Even his smiles in the mirror look fake. It'd been so long he'd forgotten he could look that carefree.

*

**The Dog**

“Wow, this is a dump,” Tony says mildly.

“Z tha' my new bow?” Clint asks through a mouthful of pizza.

“Maybe. I did tell you about the home theatre system in your other apartment, the infinitely superior apartment that you've barely set foot in.”

Clint just holds a slightly oily hand out and beckons. “Gimmie.”

Tony rolls his eyes and hands the slim case over. Even with pizza grease on his fingers, Clint has the bow out and unfolded and is sighting down the draw in seconds. Tony's not ashamed to admit he's got a bit of a competence kink, and that Clint fondling his tech is more than a little hot.

“Seriously though, all the toys. Plus, prime real estate, killer views and reliable hot water. And, frankly, it smells a lot better.”

Clint doesn't so much as pause, just draws the bow a couple more times, fluidly, breaks it down, opens it back up again. “Yeah, sorry. That's Lucky.”

Tony blinks. “How are bad pipes _lucky?_ I mean I know circus folk are superstitious, but seriously. Indoor plumbing isn't magic.”

Clint _giggles_. “No, _Lucky_ ,” he clarifies, and points across the room at a mutt that's obviously seen better days. The dog's mouth opens in a grin, and his tail beats the floor twice. “The dumpster didn't get emptied on schedule this week, and he got into the bags stacked beside it. He's in trouble,” Clint says in a stern voice, frowning comically at the end. Lucky wags his tail again.

“All that is from that... Okay. This is an emergency.” Tony whips out his phone, is texting his most competent PA (still not Pepper's level, but close) immediately. “I'm installing one of those hydrobath things with an industrial blowdrier. Bring him round tomorrow, if you haven't asphyxiated before then.”

“You don't have to-” Clint begins.

“I do. I really, really do. Are you sure he's not white under all that... _eau de dumpster?_ ”

“Pretty sure. His face isn't normally black, though. It's something sticky. Teriyaki sauce, maybe?”

Tony adds an order for the strongest pet shampoo available to the PA's list. It doesn't even make the top fifty weirdest things he's demanded from a PA or concierge. He knows, because Pepper has a list.

“Tomorrow night. Bring the bow. There are some simulations I want you to run with it, make sure it's up to snuff. And that, that is just intolerable. How do you still have an appetite with that noxious hound in here?” Tony flaps his hand at Clint, who has just stuffed an entire slice in his mouth.

“Growing boy,” Clint mumbles, when he's chewed enough that he can speak again. “Plus, it's like thirty degrees out there. I'm not going to make him sleep on the fire escape.”

Tony shakes his head. “It's your nose.”

“After you've mucked out big cats, a little garbage isn't that big a deal,” Clint says placidly.

“I'll take your word for it,” Tony says sceptically, then flees the thickening fug of the apartment.

*

Clint is standing stock-still, staring at The Saddest Dog in the World. “What did you do to him?”

Lucky makes a groaning, grumbling sound and lowers his head so he can look up, showing that he can be sadder, if he wants to. The weasel.

“He's... fluffy. And kind of shiny,” Clint says, sounding confused.

“Apparently, that's what he's supposed to look like, once you've got all the dirt, motor oil and sticky rib sauce off him.”

Clint crouches down, lowers a hand to Lucky's head and pats him tentatively. “His toenails look weird.”

“Oh, yeah, they gave him a peticure. Get it? … Oh, never mind. It's completely pain-free, they promised me. Pet torture was not on the list of services they offered. Might stop him scratching up your floors.”

“They put a little bow on him,” Clint gripes, plucking at the loops of synthetic ribbon.

“Yeah, that, I agree, is pretty stupid. But just be thankful, they offered to chuck in nail polish or airbrushed colour for free. I didn't think you'd go for that.”

Clint looks genuinely aghast. “Who airbrushes a dog?”

“Lots of people, apparently. It's a thing, I don't pretend to understand.”

Lucky has moved his head to rest his chin on Clint's knee. Clint is scratching Lucky behind an ear, looking gloomy. “I haven't seen him like this since I got him, and well, he'd just been hit by a car and was on pretty heavy painkillers.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake. JARVIS, are there any steaks upstairs?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“Come on, Queen Susan, you and your pooch. Honestly, I try and save someone from toxic waste, and this is the thanks I get...”

He defers steak cooking duty to Clint, who, while not a trained chef, is far superior to Tony at burning meat to the socially acceptable degree. Tony tunes the tv to Dog Cops, cracks open a few beers, and it's officially the most bro-like evening since the last leave Rhodey had stateside.

Lucky inhales his own steak and regains his smug grin of satisfaction. Then he waits until Clint and Tony are both full and mellow before leaping up into the gap between them, smelling of pet shampoo and doggy breath. Suddenly, Tony has a lap of hair and bony knees and wow, okay, that is far from sanitary.

“Help?” Tony squeaks, between Lucky's sloppy licks to his face.

Lucky disappears, yanked back abruptly but gently by Clint, who takes the opportunity to scruff up Lucky's now-sleek coat. “I thought you had everything, Stark. Don't tell me you never had a dog.”

Tony's slightly out-of-breath. His face and neck are damp and slimy, and he's pretty sure some of Lucky's hair is already working its way inside his clothes to itch and tickle him. “Just... not used to it, I guess,” he says finally.

Clint looks him up and down like he's sizing him up, but he doesn't rib him any more. Lucky settles down between them like that was always his goal (it probably was, the sneak) and if Tony's hand ends up wound into the super-soft fur behind Lucky's ears by the end of the show, well, that's nobody's business.

*

**The High Life**

“You know the bag of weed thing was a joke, right?” Tony asks. “You didn't have to get baked just to prove me right.”

“It's incense,” Bruce replies, without even looking up from the notepaper he's scribbling on.

“Sure it is. I bet that's what you told your mom when you were fifteen, too,” Tony cracks.

Bruce pauses, his pen stopping mid-word. “My aunt, actually. My mother was.... gone by then.”

The pen starts to move again, looping and flowing across the page in what Tony has to admit is gorgeous copperplate. It's a far cry from his own chicken scratch scrawl. There's a reason he pretty much works exclusively digitally, these days. He got tired of trying to decipher his own handwriting.

“You know JARVIS can do all of that for you. He takes dictation, writes it up. He's good at spreadsheets, colour-coding, all that jazz,” Tony continues, awkwardly. He doesn't do apologies, but the tiny fragment that remains of his guilty conscience is poking him like mad. It's unpleasant.

“It's a letter. I like handwriting letters. It's more personal.”

“You and Steve should really get together more. Listen to the wireless, read the broadsheets. Do they even print broadsheets any more?”

Bruce's lips thin, and he places the pen down neatly parallel to his writing paper. It is actual writing paper, Tony realises, creamy, good quality stock. He gets the sudden urge to pinch a sheet, rub the paper between thumb and finger to appreciate the texture.

“Do you need something, Tony?” Bruce asks, carefully controlled.

“Not really. Well, maybe. What's your position on eating in total darkness? It's a thing, and I've been meaning to go to this place for ages, but then I spent three months in a cave and all I wanted was to eat processed crap in open, sunlit places after that, so it kind of fell off my radar. It's supposed to be fun, and you get to eat with your fingers, which I'm a big fan of. Kind of flies in the face of all that decorum crap my parents forced me through, all that which fork for which food crap that I've spent the last thirty years trying to forget. So, you, me, food?”

“No.”

“What?”

“No, thank you.” The way Bruce grits it out, it's almost a _fuck you_ , and isn't that interesting.

Tony beats a retreat. He's not hurt, not really, but it's hard to not wonder, to not poke and prod.

“JARVIS, that wasn't just me, right?”

“I believe Doctor Banner was upset before your arrival, sir.”

Tony sighs. “Good, that's good, right? I mean, I didn't really help -”

“Undoubtedly,” JARVIS interjects.

“ _So_ rude. You never used to sass me this much,” Tony complains.

He's lost his appetite for pretentious cuisine, so he gets JARVIS to order one of everything he likes from that great Chinese place across town, and settles in to his massive sofa to nurse his sulk. 

“Queue up something I like, I don't feel like choosing,” Tony says.

JARVIS loads up _2001: A Space Odyssey_ , and Tony throws a wadded napkin at the screen.

*

Halfway through, Bruce slinks into the room, shoulders hunched almost like he's expecting to be hit. Tony doesn't do anything but glance his way, then slide a box of spicy noodles with Chinese broccoli down the coffee table.

“Should still be warm,” he says before turning back to the film.

Bruce hovers for what seems an infinite moment, before appearing to come to a decision. He perches on the edge of the sofa and snags a pair of chopsticks, and from the corner of his eye, Tony sees him start to tuck in.

“Don't you see this as a cautionary tale?” Bruce ventures when the movie is winding to its close.

“Even if I did, which I don't, do you think I'd listen?”

“I think you're rather enamoured of danger, and you'd do it just to see what happened. Did do it, unless I'm vastly off-base.” Bruce twirls a finger in the air, at the ceiling.

“JARVIS does a great version of _Daisy Bell_ ,” Tony says, his lips upturned in a warm, unabashed smile. Bruce returns it for a few moments, then fidgets, and stares down at his hands.

“I need some air,” Bruce says, and moves rather abruptly across the room and out the balcony door.

Tony follows, because, well, Bruce is right. He likes danger, and he likes to poke and prod.

By the time Tony gets outside, Bruce has his elbows on the railing and is staring out over the city. It's bitterly cold, but Tony leans with his back against the railing and waits.

“It wasn't just incense,” Bruce sighs.

Tony gasps in mock-horror, but lets his face relax back into a slight smile a moment later.

“I got a letter from Betty. I just... I needed to put a lid on things. It doesn't stop the Other Guy from coming out, it just makes it easier to keep him back, sometimes.”

“Toke up all you like, you're hardly going to shock me,” Tony says lazily.

Bruce reaches into a pocket, and pulls out a pre-rolled joint and a box of matches. His hands are trembling slightly; he breaks two matches before he gets one lit, and then the wind instantly blows it out. He huffs and swears a rather creative blue streak.

“Here,” Tony says, and produces his antique lighter. With all of their hands cupped around the flame, the tip of the joint finally glows and pungent smoke clouds around them. Bruce inhales deeply, then lets the smoke slowly stream out of his nostrils with the ease of long practice.

“I'm sorry about your mom,” Tony blurts, almost against his will.

Bruce shrugs, but the unhappy set of his shoulders is unmistakeable. “I thought you knew everything about me,” he confesses. “For a moment, I thought you were just being cruel. Then I realised you didn't know.”

“I read up on your academic research, and anything with a highly classified flag on SHIELD's database. Didn't dig into your home life.” 

“I never used to do this, you know. I used to be so square. I was proud of my my mind, my intellect. I'd seen enough after-school specials that I was terrified of anything that might take that away. My ticket out.” Bruce takes another drag. “Now, I don't think I could fry my brain, even if I tried.”

Bruce holds out the joint. Tony's hands twitch, clench into fists. He shoves them into his pockets. “Sorry, I can't... I don't... Sorry. People handing me stuff. It started when I had heavy metal poisoning from the reactor, my immune system was tanked. Now it's a thing. I know it's stupid, but it's persistent. I've been working on it. Well, ignoring it.”

When Tony glances up, Bruce is looking speculative. “There are other options.”

“I drove my last therapist into retirement. I was eleven.”

“Not for the hand thing. For getting this,” he waves the joint, “into you.” Bruce lets the smoke curl out of his mouth, and Tony swears the twinkle in his eye is actually wicked.

“You can't be offering what I think you're offering because it's nowhere near my birthday, Christmas isn't for six weeks, and Pepper would be the first in line to tell you I have _not_ been a good boy this year.”

“Don't tell me you're nervous. You went to college,” Bruce teases.

“I was in my mid-teens in college. Girls thought I was adorable, and not in a good way. I was everyone's little brother. I was lucky to lose my virginity before I graduated. I sure as hell wasn't getting offered shotgun kisses of whatever shitty weed was going around.”

“You really haven't done this,” Bruce says disbelievingly.

“I haven't done it with _you_ ,” Tony replies, and it's so honest it aches somewhere inside his chest.

“I don't have to touch you,” Bruce says gently, and then Tony realises that maybe he is a little nervous. He leans a little closer to Bruce, lets their arms brush.

“It's fine, it doesn't work like that. Just don't try to hand me anything, and you can do whatever you want to me,” Tony says, finishing with a lewd wink.

It's enough to cause a smile to flash across Bruce's face, and then he's inhaling on the joint, and leaning close, closer.

When their lips meet, it's tentative. _Warm_ , Tony thinks, and he almost forgets to inhale, the smoke tickling damply across his tongue, from Bruce's lungs to his own. The moment spools out slowly, and it feels natural, when the breath has finished, to lick delicately into Bruce's mouth. By the time Bruce's tongue touches his, Tony's head is spinning. They kiss for several long, heady minutes, stopping a few times for Bruce to take another drag.

Bruce smokes the joint down close to his fingertips, then reaches past Tony to stub it out. Though the excuse is gone he dips in again and kisses Tony deeply. They're both hard, Tony realises. His hips hitch, and the length of his clothed cock rubs against Bruce's thigh. A tiny sound flutters in his throat. Bruce's hips jerk in response.

“This is a really bad idea,” Bruce mumbles against Tony's mouth.

“I love bad ideas,” Tony replies, his voice gravelly with weed and arousal. “And I will totally respect our friendship and your personal boundaries in the future. Unless there's a point when you'd rather I didn't, which would be awesome, too.”

“I shouldn't,” Bruce says, wistful.

“At least come inside. I'm freezing my ass off out here.”

Tony expects Bruce to beg off once they're back in the warm embrace of the central heating, but he trails after Tony to his bedroom, his bed. They peel off layers between kisses, but don't get all the way to naked. Once Bruce is down to boxers, Tony gets impatient and slides his hand right down the front of them to start jerking him off with slow, firm pulls, and he's delighted when Bruce reciprocates.

Even though they were ready to go, it's not over in moments. Every few minutes, Bruce gasps, “Close!” and Tony understands, slows and gentles his touch until Bruce's breathing calms, until he's pushing up into Tony's grip again. What Tony does, Bruce mirrors, until they're both breathing each other's breath more than they're kissing, until they're both trembling like leaves in the wind. When Bruce finally does come, it seems to take him by surprise. He surges forward with a startled cry and latches his mouth onto Tony's. Tony's not exactly sure, but it's probably Bruce biting his lip and the flash of emerald green in Bruce's eyes that finishes him, and then they're winding down, clumsily petting and stroking any skin they can reach while their kisses get less frantic, more lazy.

“Should clean up, shower, something,” Bruce mumbles.

“Sure,” Tony slurs, then falls asleep immediately. 

*

“Captain Rogers is waiting to see you, sir.”

“Wha?” Tony asks. “What time izzt?”

“The time is ten twenty-seven am. Might I suggest trousers, sir?”

“There wazza Bruce. Where's Bruce?” Tony asks, wrestling himself upright and into his discarded clothing.

“Doctor Banner awoke and left several hours ago. He is currently working in his lab.”

“Right. Good. Coffee,” Tony says, forcing himself to his feet. Coffee is important. He's also rather desperately hungry. Maybe he'll eat out this morning. “Food, JARVIS. I need food.”

“There's a pretty good diner a few blocks from here,” Steve says, and that's when Tony realises that JARVIS meant 'waiting in your living room' rather than 'waiting in the hallway outside'.

“Food?” Tony repeats, because right now pre-caffeine, it's all he can think to say.

“Food,” Steve agrees, nodding in agreement, like he's speaking to a rather slow-witted child. “Clothes first,” he qualifies, and Tony looks down at his battered wardrobe, creased and twisted and a little come-stained, and all reeking of musk and Bruce's killer weed. He's only wearing one sock.

“There is an espresso ready on the machine for you, sir,” JARVIS says, and Tony stumbles over to it.

“Oh, thank God,” he sighs. He inhales about three, one after the other, then drags himself back to the bedroom to dress himself in his most comfortable jeans, a Led Zepplin t-shirt worn to partial transparency, and sunglasses.

When he comes back out to the living room, Steve is standing at parade rest exactly where Tony left him, but the wreckage of last night's Chinese has magically disappeared. Knowing Steve, it's not even in the trash, but neatly stacked in the refrigerator. Hell, the disposable chopsticks are probably in the dishwasher, too.

“You promised food,” Tony says bullishly instead, because he doesn't have the brain to deal with Steve tidying his messes right now.

Steve just gestures towards the door, and Tony follows after. The lift ride is mainly silent, and the walk is pleasant, if too loud and bright and outdoors for Tony's tastes this morning. There is food at the end of it, though, so Tony doggedly continues. He'd do a lot for bacon.

“A plate of everything,” he mumbles at the server, who looks old enough to be his grandmother. “And coffee, lots, lots, of coffee.” She doesn't even blink, just scrawls on her pad and turns to Steve, who orders egg and sausage and pancakes and a slice of pie for dessert.

“You're laughing at me,” Tony accuses, when she's disappeared into the kitchen.

“Little bit,” Steve admits. “Bruce said you might be a little rough. I had to see it for myself.” His grin is utterly without malice, yet wicked at the same time.

“What, no disapproving lecture? 'This is your brain on drugs,' only with fewer eggs and more patriotism?”

“You think you invented marijuana?” Steve snorts. “Bucky liked jazz, liked those underground places where coloureds and whites mixed.”

“You can't call them coloureds any more,” Tony corrects.

Steve flaps a hand, tilts his head, wordlessly acknowledging the criticism. “My point is, we'd go where the music was good, and there was far more than booze getting passed around.”

“Baby Captain America was a stoner,” Tony says disbelievingly.

“Not really. Not much. Mostly I just sort of breathed in what other people were smoking. Hard not to; the clubs were tiny, crowded. It made my head whirl. Doesn't do anything now, of course.”

“You've tried it?” Tony splutters. 

“Sure. Bruce's stuff is pretty strong; has to be, to affect him at all. Didn't know if maybe it would work, but, well, nothing.” Steve shrugs in an 'aw, shucks, what can you do?' kind of way, and Tony realises he should probably shut his open mouth before he swallows a fly.

Fortunately, that's when his enormous plate of food arrives, and Tony decides the shattering of his world-view can wait.

*

**The Clasped Hand**

“Terribly sorry about all this. Usually, there'd be more champagne. Maybe dinner. Maybe not. Depends, really, on the person, the situation. The... um... urgency... Not that I usually just jump into bed with people. Not any more. Not with team mates. Well, not often.”

“I will cut you,” Natasha says.

“I would never... with you. You know that, right? I mean, not that there's anything wrong with you... you're very, um, very... _very_. I just, um, boundaries. I mean, respect.”

Natasha makes a tiny, swift movement in the half-dark, and Tony is very aware that there's a blade in Natasha's free hand. He jerks back so hard, that were it not for Natasha's unyielding grip on his left hand, he'd have fallen right out of bed completely.

“Go to sleep, Stark,” Natasha grits out.

“I was nervous before, there's no way I'm going to drop off now.”

Tony flexes his trapped hand again, allows his free hand to tug at it. Natasha's fingers remain firmly wrapped around his own, as immovable as one of his own limbs.

“Fucking _magic_ ,” he hisses.

“It's temporary,” Natasha sighs. Tony gives his hand another futile tug. Natasha's free hand, now _sans_ knife, wraps around his wrist like iron. “Stop fidgeting.”

“I feel so _violated_ ,” he moans.

“Just be grateful it's not a psychic link,” Natasha says, in what sounds distinctly like the grim tone of experience. “And stop _wriggling_ , or I really will stab you.”

“I kind of need the bathroom,” Tony admits, miserably.

The silence from Natasha's side of the bed is stony. Tony holds his breath until she sighs, and flicks back the covers.

“Sorry,” he grovels.

“Don't worry about it, Stark,” Natasha says gruffly, and they wend their way to the embarrassment of the bathroom with as much dignity as either of them can muster.

*

Despite himself, Tony does sleep.

When he stirs in the morning, his eyes slowly creak open to Natasha's face scant inches from his own. He takes it as an indication of his strong fortitude that he doesn't shriek and flail back.

“You're handsy when you're unconscious,” Natasha pronounces, like it's a death sentence.

Tony feels the blood drain from his face, his heart skip erratically in his chest. “I... I didn't... I...” he stammers.

Natasha's expression doesn't change, but the moment draws out longer and longer and he isn't dead yet, so Tony buys a clue.

“You're winding me up,” he guesses.

“You twitch a bit, and sleep talk, but you don't kick and you've kept to your side of the bed. I've spent worse nights,” Natasha says, and Tony wouldn't swear to it, but it almost looks like she's thinking about smiling at his discomfiture.

“Coffee?” Tony says, and it's half question, half offer.

The smile that had been threatening finally breaks, small but undeniable, across Natasha's face. “Please.”

*

They've manoeuvred their way through making coffee, toasting bread and scrambling eggs when Clint strolls in to find them seated at the breakfast bar.

“Huh,” he says, looking genuinely surprised. “I would have thought you'd have him bound and gagged by now.”

“That would impede my movements,” Natasha says, as though she'd carefully considered the logistics.

“Fair enough,” Clint says. He perches on the edge of the breakfast bar and steals a slice of toast. “'M here to drive you to SHIELD.”

“A cure?” Tony asks, instantly alert.

Clint makes a non-committal noise and tilts a hand back and forth. “More a guess. A hunch. With chanting.”

* 

The chanting is a bust. SHIELD's hocus-pocus experts talk in nonsense, scribble on the floor with chalk and burn so much sage Tony's certain he'll reek of it for weeks. He's tired, cranky, and fed up to his gills with outrageous violations of the laws of science.

“I'm going home,” he says, when an agent in a magenta robe suggests another round of runic scribbling, this time with drums and cymbals. “This is supposed to wear off on its own anyway, right? So it'll wear off on its own, without the help of Harry Potter.”

“Agreed,” Natasha says.

The agent looks incredibly displeased, but relents.

“We should stop at my floor on the way in,” Natasha says when they've made their escape.

“You moved in?” Tony asks, startled. “When did you move in? I didn't know you'd moved in.”

“A month ago. I know you didn't,” Natasha says, smugly.

“And JARVIS didn't... that _traitor_ ,” Tony seethes.

If Natasha could purr with satisfaction, Tony thinks she would.

“Although what you could possibly want that I don't have in the penthouse, I have no idea,” Tony grumbles.

“It's been two days. I need a shower,” Natasha says.

Tony falters halfway through a step, and nearly falls on his face.

*

“This is way less sexy than I always imagined,” Tony says.

It's not just a matter of politely turning his back. They have a seriously short tether to each other, and Natasha is reliant on him for everything that requires the use of two hands, like squeezing out shampoo from the bottle. 

Of course, it's a lot less awkward, somehow, than when they'd arrived, and Natasha turned to him with a knife in her hand and instructed him to cut her shirt off.

“I liked this one, but it can't be helped. Just the shirt; the bra's convertible. Unhook the shoulder strap to get it off.”

“But after, what will you, I mean...” Tony vaguely gestured to her chest.

“Halter neck,” Natasha said immediately.

“Oh. Right,” Tony said, and reached for the knife.

Now, there are warm rivulets of water laden with suds running down his wrist to drip onto the shower floor. He's gripping the towel in his lap tightly, trying not to think about what happens when the shower turns off. He's thinking about it so hard that he doesn't notice the moment has come until Natasha is standing in front of him.

“Stark,” she says firmly, and he blinks, dragging his eyes up from where they'd accidentally strayed to.

“Sorry,” he says again, and he wonders if he's ever apologised so many times in such a quick succession as the last day and a half.

Between the two of them, they get the towel wrapped around her, and Tony's terrified she's going to ask him to help her dry off. He doesn't think he'd get through that without incurring at least minor injury. He is human, after all.

“You may as well wash now, too,” she says, nodding towards the cubicle.

“I don't have anything to wear,” he says, feebly.

“I'll lend you one of my halter necks if you're shy.”

A laugh escapes him, he can't help it. He tries to swallow it down, but it turns into a cough. When he looks up at Natasha, though, she's smiling.

“All right then,” he says, and stands still as he can for her to slit his Clash shirt from hem to neckline.

*

Tony's hands are empty when he knocks on Natasha's door. It's been a day since they woke up unattached, and he's spent a good portion of that day chewing over the idea of what to do, what to say.

To be honest, he still hasn't worked it out.

“I didn't bring anything,” he says immediately, when the door opens, “because the last time I brought someone an apology gift, I nearly poisoned Pepper. So I'm not bringing something. I'm asking what you'd like, that I can give you, which is pretty much anything. Well, anything money can buy. You're not saying anything,” Tony says. “That's bad, right? I've offended you. I should go. Or at least stop making it worse. I'll go.”

“Wait,” Natasha says, as he's turning to leave.

Tony hesitates, and that's when Natasha leans in close, presses a chaste kiss to his cheek.

“You're sweet,” she says, like she's been pleasantly surprised in something about Tony, for the first time ever. “I'll think of something.”

Her door shuts again, leaving Tony in the hallway.

He designs her a Taser wrist cuff and a tiny set of ceramic blades that fit neatly into concealed pockets all over her newest body armour. It's not exactly the shopping spree in the garment district that Tony envisioned she might choose, but when Natasha gives him a detailed list of potential improvements after her next SHIELD mission, he knows his gift is very much appreciated.

*

**The Feast (or, A Very Avengers Christmas)**

“Didn't really think you were someone who'd go in for all this,” Clint says, waving a hand at the general state of the penthouse.

“He likes shiny things,” Pepper says wryly. 

“Shiny things, and booze. I'm also big fan of any celebration that ends with setting fire to the dessert,” Tony says with glee.

“Oh, Tony, no,” Pepper sighs. “Not after last year.”

“We'll just leave the bots in the basement. I mean, they'll be disappointed, but I'll go down and pull some crackers with them or something so they don't feel left out.”

“You're still not going to be the one lighting the pudding.”

“But, Pep-” Tony whines.

“ _No_ , Tony,” Pepper says with the even firmness of long practice as she smooths out a tangled rope of tinsel into an ordered strand, ready to be hung.

“I should have called you to come around and sort out that Gordian knot of electrical cabling, rather than Tony. Maybe then I wouldn't have had to cut the cords, and spend a day rewiring everything,” Clint muses.

“Wouldn't have been a problem if you'd let me just replace it all.”

“It's my stuff. I worked it out,” says Clint.

There's a polite clearing of the throat, and Bruce sidles in, a small pile of neatly wrapped presents in his arms. “How's it going?”

“Pepper won't let me set fire to my food and Clint won't let me make him my kept man. It's hardly worth celebrating at all,” Tony bemoans.

“I thought I was your kept man,” Bruce replies, with a smile that's almost saucy. The minx.

“It's a big tower. I'm thinking of starting a harem.”

“Clint, could you fetch the stepladder? It's in the closet over there,” Pepper says. The garlands of tinsel and ropes of lights lie in neat parallel lines across Tony's enormous sofa, ready for winding around the tree.

“Take note, JARVIS. Lots of gauzy curtains, cushioned floors, clothing entirely optional. Peacocks, JARVIS, there must be peacocks.” 

“Just there, Clint, thank you.”

“Want me to...?”

“Please. These heels aren't really ladder-friendly.”

“Eunuchs with palm frond fans. Are eunuchs still a thing?”

“Aren't you going to tell him, ' _no, Tony_ '?” Clint asks from his perch on the ladder.

“No need. He doesn't have the attention span to maintain a harem, and he knows I won't do it for him. He'll lose interest soon. He's only still talking about it because he's sulking.”

“I'll do it, now, just to spite you.”

“Yes, Tony,” Pepper says.

“No love, no respect from any of you,” Tony grumbles.

“Have a brownie,” Bruce says, holding out an open Tupperware container. Bruce's brownies are legendary. Tony takes two.

“Bruce is officially my favourite, the rest of you can go home.”

“My apartment's getting fumigated,” Clint says.

“I own my floor,” Pepper reminds him.

“I live here,” Natasha says.

Tony jumps.

“You moved in? I didn't know you'd moved in,” Clint says, hands full of tinsel. “When did you move in?”

“Months ago,” Bruce says.

“You knew?” Tony whips his head around.

“We've shared the lift a few times,” Bruce replies, matter-of-factly.

“Thor's coming,” Natasha says casually, as though she's not dropping a bombshell.

“I thought he was still in Asgard,” Clint says, choosing to be the one to state the obvious.

“Apparently, he heard that this was a time of festivity and great celebration in Midgard. Someone told him that it's tradition at Christmas to serve food that's on fire, and he was determined to participate.”

Tony feels that the gazes that are turned on him, unanimously, by team mates and former employees/friends alike, are entirely unjustified.

*

“A most magnificent feast!” Thor bellows. “A small fraction of the gluttonous banquets of Asgard, but the largest bounty I have seen since first coming to Midgard.”

Tony thanks Pepper's forethought in ordering several turkeys, one of which Thor ate entirely himself, even sucking the marrow from the bones. Steve put paid to most of the second with the help of Bruce, and the third gave more than enough meat for the rest of them combined, even Clint, who Tony knows burns through calories at an indecent rate for a human without mutation or enhancement.

“But where is the Warrior's Dish of Fire? I have not seen it presented,” Thor says with an expression very close to severe disappointment. “I assure you that I have proved my worth in battle, I will not falter in the face of mere flame.”

Tony starts to get to his feet, but is halted halfway from his chair by the sharp toe of a Louboutin colliding with his shin. While he's temporarily wordless from the pain, Pepper makes her move.

“Steve?” Pepper asks, rising gracefully, showing not a flicker of the vicious shin-kicker she is on her admittedly gorgeous face. “Could you give me a hand?”

“Of course, Miss Potts,” Steve says, with the merest hint of a blush on his cheeks. He wipes his mouth with his napkin, then trails Pepper into the kitchen like a puppy.

If it wasn't for the amused glance Steve shot Tony over his napkin before standing, Tony could easily have believed Pepper's choice was spontaneous, but instead he's left with the distinct impression of having been efficiently outmanoeuvred.

*

“You, you, _colluder_ ,” Tony whispers later. “You teamed up with Pepper to spoil my fun.” 

“I'll only admit it if you tell me with a straight face that you weren't planning to use the Suit gauntlet to light the pudding.”

Tony's mouth opens and shuts. “You can't prove it,” he says.

“You hid it in the pantry,” Steve says. “I found it when I went to get the salt.”

“You _tattletale_ ,” Tony hisses.

“She already knew it was there,” Steve says, winding his cream scarf around his throat.

“How did she – _JARVIS_ , we will be having words, _stern_ words.”

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS says smugly.

“Your loyalty should be to _me_ , not to Pepper, she's the opposite of fun. - You're leaving,” Tony abruptly realises, staring at Steve, who indeed has his scarf, trenchcoat and gloves on. With his hilariously hipster fedora in his hands, he looks like the hero of a noir film. “Why are you leaving?”

“Midnight mass. There's a church a few blocks from here. If I leave now, I should make it in time.”

Tony blinks. “You want to leave my warm, well-stocked apartment, full of friends and Tivo and Bruce's brownies, for a long wet walk in sleet to an unheated, empty church to hear a dull sermon.”

“It's familiar. Mom was Catholic, and when she was gone, the nuns took over the raising of me. I'm not devout, but I kind of like it.”

“You know it's different, now, right? Vatican II in the '60s. They got rid of most of the Latin, that kind of thing.”

“Never could get the hang of Latin, anyway. No matter how many times the sisters rapped my knuckles.”

“Okay, right. You're actually going. Well, I could get someone to drive you there, drive you home. Keep your feet dry,” Tony offers.

“It's fine. I'd like the walk,” Steve says, but he's still hovering there in the doorway, hat in hand, like he's going to say something else.

“Ah! My friends! Never fear, I shall break the foul curse that has befallen you!” Thor thunders.

Being kissed by Thor is rather like being mauled by a lion, only with less biting and more tongue. Tony staggers back, reeling, only to see Steve meet the same fate.

“You may walk free again,” Thor announces, before strolling off majestically.

From the sofa, there's a wave of giggles, and a passing around of cellphones, presumably showing off photographs. Clint holds up his hand for a high five; Thor obliges, with enough force that Clint has to shake out his hand afterwards.

“Did that just happen?” Tony asks, dazed.

Steve lets out a slightly out-of-breath laugh, before pointing upwards. 

“Mistletoe,” he pants.

There's beard burn on his cheeks; it's very distracting.

“Clint,” Tony mutters.

“Probably,” Steve agrees.

“Coal in your stocking, Barton!” Tony calls out. Clint just cackles madly.

“I'll be back,” Steve promises, stepping forward. 

“You'd better,” Tony says. “Christmas movie marathon, starting with _It's a Wonderful Life_. You'll love it.”

Tony gets a little more warning than with Thor, but it still shocks him when Steve dips down to kiss him. Steve's lips linger on his for a long, suspended moment, soft and sweet with fruit and brandy. Steve's free hand cups Tony's hip gently, squeezes and releases, Steve's fingertips trailing away as he pulls back, his smile warm and satisfied.

“Merry Christmas, Tony,” Steve murmurs, and before Tony can gather up his scattered wits, Steve has flitted out the door and vanished.

There's a moment of near silence and then a flurry of cat-calls and wolf-whistles ring out from the peanut gallery.

“I don't know why I keep you assholes around, seriously. A harem would be far less trouble,” Tony growls, but he can't suppress his enormous, goofy smile to say it, and when Clint holds up his hand for another high five, Tony gives it to him.

**Author's Note:**

>  **The Joke**  
>  celebratory kiss
> 
>  **The Road Trip**  
>  road trip  
> (non-square kiss – gratitude)
> 
>  **The Dog**  
>  (non-square kiss - acceptance)
> 
>  **The High Life**  
>  indecent proposal
> 
>  **The Clasped Hand**  
>  sharing a bed  
> handcuffed/bound together  
> (non-square kiss – thank you)
> 
>  **The Feast**  
>  holidayfic  
> mistletoe kiss  
> kiss to save the day (Thor's misinformed kisses of Steve and Tony)


End file.
